The Haunting House |
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Dead and Breakfast
by Brian James LaneSondra Levy walked through the woodlands. Horace, her cameraman, struggled to keep her in frame as he wrestled with various equipment. Dusk approached, so Horace turned on the lighting so as not to lose the reporter in the impending gloom.
Sondra narrated, "Arguably, one of the most infamous serial killers of the last century is Gaines Roland Pickett. These woods were the burial ground for thirteen of his known victims.
"Gaines believed that through these crimes, he would achieve immortality. He buried their dismembered corpses in shallow graves in this very path.
"Their blood soaked the ground and fed these trees. Trees that were later used to build Wingate Mansion."
Horace let Sondra walk out of frame for dramatic effect. "Beautiful, Sondra." He said.
Sondra walked back, beaming. "I know this is fluff filler, but I am really enjoying it."
"Too bad it wasn't a live remote." Horace commented.
Sondra nodded. "We'll run it in segments with lead promos. I'll make a name for us both, Horace."
"Well, at least we didn't have to be war correspondents to do so. I would rather deal with dead spooks than live ammunition."
"Not me. I would do anything. Part of the reason I became a reporter was because of my insatiable curiosity."
Horace nodded in agreement. Had Sondra been a cat, she would have perished a long time ago.
Horace said, "I just want to get another shot of the woods while the lighting is good. Should look really spooky with the sun shining through. It makes the Spanish Moss glow, too."
Horace set up the tripod and mounted the camera. He hit record and did a slow pan through the forest. The surroundings were eerie.
Horace gathered his equipment. They hiked towards the mansion. "You know, I'm not filming now. You could help me carry some of this crap." He said.
She replied, "I could, but then I would be breaking O.S.H.A. laws."
"Nice out."
She smiled. "I thought so."
The two approached the large Victorian mansion. It loomed over them. The place was in shambles, desperately in need of repair. Old paint crinkled and curled from its sides. The rickety shudders barely hung from rusty hinges. The shingles on the roof had shed in places like scales off of an old snake. Horace filmed an establishing shot.
Inside, cobwebs hung from everything and dust coated the place. Nobody had been inside for years. Antique furniture and paintings still adorned the interior. Even an old grandfather clock stood silently in the corner.
The floorboards creaked with every step. They surveyed the place for the best background. The main foyer dripped with atmosphere, so they chose it.
While Horace set up the lighting and camera, Sondra ran through her lines. After a moment, they were both ready for the next segment.
Horace began filming. Sondra continued, "Philip Wingate had a taste for the macabre. Wingate purchased these woods after Pickett was hanged. Wingate consigned laborers to complete this mansion from the timber.
"From that point on, death has plagued Wingate Mansion. Four workers perished while pouring the basement. Their skeletal remains are permanently embedded in the concrete.
"Alice Wingate gave birth here, but her child was stillborn. Three days later, Philip found her lifeless corpse hanging from the banister of the spiral staircase to my left.
"Philip grew insane with grief. He told tales of the ghost of Gaines Roland Pickett cursing Wingate Mansion. The ghost informed him that the blood of the thirteenth victim would spill on the wood of the place and bring it to life.
"Philip Wingate himself became the seventh victim. He tried to break the curse by setting the mansion afire. Mysteriously, the doors of his bedroom slammed and locked shut, effectively containing the fire that consumed Philip but little else.
"With no heirs, the mansion became property of the state. While attempting to bring the place up to current code, five workers lost their lives when a seemingly new and safe water heater violently exploded.
"That brings the curse up to twelve. Gretta and Igna Solfern have since purchased Wingate Mansion with the purpose of turning it into a bed and breakfast. The Solferns have given us permission to spend the night in Wingate Mansion. We'll keep you posted on all the 'things that go bump in the night'. Sondra Levy, Channel Four News."
Horace cut the tape, smiling. "First take, Sondra. You're a real pro! I told you we should have been live."
"Thanks, Horace."
"Where now?" He asked.
"I was thinking we would get a POV shot from the top of the staircase."
"Good idea." Horace replied.
With that, they made the trek upstairs. The floors continued to protest their movement. The creaks echoed through the cavernous rooms.
Horace set up from the top of the stairwell. The grandfather clock began to chime downstairs. "Guess it still works, huh?"
The chimes grew louder, echoing ominously up towards them. Five, six chimes. With every gong, Sondra grew more anxious. Horace leaned over the railing, adjusting the equipment. Eight, nine chimes.
Horace turned around. Ten, Eleven. "Hurry up, maybe we can get some audio of that clock."
Sondra violently pushed Horace. She saw his eyes widen and his arms flailed out, desperately trying to grasp something to break his fall. Nothing did. Twelve chimes.
Horace plummeted down, smacking brutally on the hard wood floor. Sondra held her breath. She knew she was too curious for her own good.
"I told you I would make a name for us." She called out.
The grandfather clocked chimed again. Thirteen.
Blood ran from Horace's lifeless eyes and mouth. It trickled down to the floor, dripping in earnest.
The wooden slats of the floor soaked up the blood like a sponge. A deep, guttural roar emanated through the mansion. It was followed by a maniacal laugh.
Upstairs, Sondra gasped in terror. "What would happen to the fourteenth victim?" She wondered.
At least she knew her curiosity would finally be sated.
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